


Sorry Knot Sorry

by Omnicat



Series: Pumpkin Spice Lemons [3]
Category: Timeless (TV 2016)
Genre: (Except Some Rittenhouse Goons Werewolf Flynn Tears The Throats Out Of At The End), Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Catholic Guilt, Cunnilingus, Doggy Style, Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, F/M, Guilty Pleasures, Knotting, Lemon, Porn With Padding, Pre-Canon, Sex with Sentient Animals, Urban Fantasy, Werewolf Garcia Flynn, Werewolf Iris Flynn, Werewolf Sex, Werewolves, ¯I_(ツ)_/¯
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-04
Updated: 2020-10-04
Packaged: 2021-03-07 17:08:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,841
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26821180
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Omnicat/pseuds/Omnicat
Summary: There are secrets, and then there areSecrets. Lorena Flynn’s husband and daughter are werewolves: that’s a secret. Some full moons coincide with Lorena’s hormonal cycle in... interesting ways. That’s aSecret.
Relationships: Lorena/Flynn
Series: Pumpkin Spice Lemons [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1946326
Comments: 5
Kudos: 18





	Sorry Knot Sorry

Every family had its secrets, Lorena’s mother liked to say. Some of them small, harmless, and frequent. Others, big and bad. Money, relationships, health, malice. Lorena considered herself lucky. Her family had nothing to hide in that regard. They were healthy and financially secure, they all loved each other, and nobody was hurting anyone.

Their only real secret was what Garcia’s job entailed, exactly. Classified information, state secrets, people in witness protection, the whole rigmarole.

Right, and the fact that Garcia and Iris were werewolves, of course. Though enough of their social circle shared similar secrets that it barely felt like a _secret_ anymore, more like... an exclusive club that outsiders weren’t supposed to know about until the local Hedgeperson vetted them.

Well, and then there were certain of their... bedroom practices. But Lorena wasn’t going to dignify _that_ with the status of a secret. It was just privacy as privacy should be.

So fine, they had a lot of secrets. But that wasn’t one of them.

...oh, who was she kidding. What Lorena and Garcia got up to in bed was their biggest secret of all.

When their relationship first started getting serious, the elected Hedge witch at the time, an (as Lorena would soon learn) unusually stereotypical old woman named Agatha, with eight cats and a yard full of weeds only she understood the logic and purpose of, had given her a crash course on the supernatural scene in and around San Diego. Well, first she’d taken one look at them, rolled her eyes, and spat, “ _Men!_ Why is it always the men? And I had such a high opinion of you until now!”, knowing immediately that Garcia hadn’t waited for Lorena to be vetted before spilling the beans at all. _Then_ she’d loaded Lorena up with advice and informational pamphlets and flyers for supernatural-owned companies and establishments.

Mostly werewolf stuff, obviously. Starting with a warning that werewolves caught fleas just as easily as any other canine, which earned her a foul look from Garcia until she cracked up and told Lorena: “I wouldn’t worry too much about that with this one, though. You made a good choice.”

But also: religious jewelry and the like wouldn’t _kill_ anybody, but if she wanted to make friends in this crowd she might want to buy a longer chain for that crucifix of hers anyway. Speaking of which, angels and demons were not in any way religious authorities: basically everything ever written about them in human sources was propaganda from an ancient race war. Go ahead and invite vampires in for a cup of coffee, uninviting them was as easy as unfriending people on social media. The fae had moved away from their ‘trap you and never let you go’ tactics since they developed reliable amnesiatic compounds, but she still shouldn’t eat or drink anything they offered her if she needed to drive home afterward, because their diet was hallucinogenic to other species, and it _would_ show up as such on drug tests. Naked dance parties were invite-only, random nudity on a witch’s property would get you hexed. (“That... that happens enough to warn people about it during orientation?” “Don’t even get me started, kid.”) If a ghost ever moved into her house without her permission, just call the Hedge and they’d send someone to evict them.

And so on and so forth.

It was a lot. But Agatha had said nothing about... intimacy... unless you counted, “Hereditary werewolves are perfectly sane and safe, but don’t let him get cute with the teeth, because if he bites you, _you_ won’t be.”

At the time, Lorena had been distracted by all the things the pamphlet titled ‘Werewolves, Reproduction, and You’ _did_ tell her. Like that the size of the average werewolf family was a purely cultural phenomenon and werewolves were statistically no more prone to twins or multiplets than any other creature; to not schedule pregnancy check-ups on a full moon or the day preceding or following it, because the muggles (they’d really adopted ‘muggles’ into their vocabulary) would draw all the wrong conclusions; that werewolf babies started transforming every month as early as the third trimester, so pregnant muggles should expect some discomfort or strange sensations at moonrise and moonset once a month; to be prepared to miss your due date by up to two weeks, because the full moon would almost certainly hasten or delay the onset of labor; and for muggle partners not to worry! Newborn were cubs would turn human come morning. Let your wolf partner take care of them until then.

It had seemed to answer all of her questions. Hell, it answered questions she never even would have thought to ask. Until, a year or so into their marriage, she found herself with _new_ questions, doubts and desires, and no-one she dared voice them to. For the longest time, she couldn’t even bear the thought of _Garcia_ knowing how she’d started thinking of him.

They’d figured it out eventually, though. Just the two of them.

Nobody else. Nobody knew. Nobody had to or ever would know.

Some full moons, Garcia went out to run with his friends, or rile up the neighborhood dogs for shits and giggles, while Lorena got to have fluffy, yappy Iris all to herself. When she was pregnant, he’d herded her into bed early every month and spent the whole night with his head on her stomach. Sometimes they let Iris stay up far, far past her bedtime so she and her father could bond and play together in this form they shared.

And sometimes... god, Lorena couldn’t even think it. She would never, ever, not once in her life, admit to it. Not even to the handful of other shapeshifter’s spouses she knew. Not this. Not that sometimes, they... well.

Garcia could smell her ovulating. Always, on some level, even as a man. But as a wolf, he’d told her once, sometimes she smelled so strongly of _want_ it made his mouth water.

That was how it started.

That was where it could have ended, too.

It just... hadn’t.

So some full moons, they did _this_.

Some full moons, the sun would set, and Garcia would swing Iris up into his arms, kiss Lorena on the cheek, and retreat to their sound-proofed basement. The transformation was not a calm or controlled process, so it was safer for everyone for that to happen in a locked room. Lorena would wait until the door closed behind them to follow and press her ear against the wood, despite everything always worried, always wanting to know. Fifteen to thirty minutes later, depending on how close he’d cut it to moonrise, Garcia would open the door from the inside, and Iris would come bounding out of the basement and straight into Lorena’s waiting arms. Barking like the excited puppy she was, her tiny fluffy tail wagging and her tongue lolling. Garcia would follow at a more sedate pace. Lorena would reach down to stroke his warm ears, and he would press his snout to the inside of her wrist and breathe her in.

His eyes would meet hers. The eyes never changed. That mercurial grey-green was an odd color to find set in the face of a wolf, human sclera absent and fur surrounding them. But it was a sight as familiar as her own reflection. It meant that no matter what, Lorena was never in danger of forgetting that these strange beasts housed the man she’d married and the baby she’d had with him.

Garcia’s eyes would meet Lorena’s, and she’d _know_. He’d nose at her armpit next, and her neckline, and try to stick his face inside her shirt wherever he happened to find an opening, the unexpected assault of his fur tickling her skin, and that would confirm it. It was a ritual, their secret code of playful double meaning. Squeaking with laughter, she’d push him away and slap his rump, and that would mean _yes_. But if either of them were really honest, it never took more than that one look.

(Iris could follow the fluctuations of her mother’s fertility cycle – wonky, irregular pain in the gut that it was – with her nose too. A fact that Lorena’s upbringing said was mortifying and borderline criminal, and Garcia’s said was a natural and almost negligible fact of life. After Iris had spent an entire night distressed by the scent of Lorena’s period blood once, they’d compromised by teaching her a little bit about hormones, but postponing the actual birds and the bees talk until she was older.

“She won’t recognize what it actually _is_ she’s picking up on until much later anyway,” Garcia had assured Lorena. “I didn’t put two and two together myself until I noticed my first boyfriend’s scents didn’t work at all like my first girlfriend’s.”

Lorena had narrowed her eyes and asked: “How old were you?” and cracked up laughing when he answered, “Eighteen. What? _What?_ ”

“Don’t you think that may have just been you being unusually dense?” Lorena had teased.

Grinning, Garcia had grabbed her around the waist and pulled her into his lap. “Sure, maybe. But Iris gets so much from me, we might as well assume she inherited that too.”)

They would make sure to tire Iris out with the tub of dog toys they hid on the top shelf of their broom closet. Play-fights and fetch and tug-o-war and races and random cuddle attacks for hours (because good god, could their daughter get _any_ cuter? every month, Lorena would revert back to thinking that Iris couldn’t get any more perfect than as a little human girl, and then she’d go and turn into a literal puppy), until Iris would flop over onto her back and play dead, all worn out. Lorena would gather her in her arms and carry her upstairs, and get a tired little lick goodnight as she put her daughter to bed. Garcia would curl up beside Iris. Lorena would retreat to their bedroom to prepare the yoga mat and beach towels. She would shuck her clothes and sit on the edge of the bed, and wait. And once he was sure Iris was fast asleep, Garcia would join her, nudging the door shut and turning the lock with one of his hybrid paws with the functional thumbs.

The mechanism clicked again this full moon, and Lorena heaved a deep, shuddering breath. Her cheeks were hot, the junction of her legs throbbed relentlessly, and it was impossible to tell if the butterflies in her stomach fluttered so hard because of excitement or anxiety. The longer it took for Garcia to be sure Iris was out for the night, the worse off Lorena was when he finally came for her.

She’d earned herself a one-way ticket to hell the first time they did this. Some deep, irrational part of her that believed things about her faith no other part had believed since she was a child, was sure of it. Every Sunday, she went to mass and clasped her hands and closed her eyes, praying on it. More than once, she’d locked herself into the confessional and breathlessly blurted out, “Forgive me, Father, I let my husband do such sinful things to me,” or “Forgive me, Father, I asked my husband to use my body in ungodly ways again.”

Every time, Father Herjavec would ask “Is he your husband in the eyes of god?” and she would answer, “Yes, Father.”

“Does he love you?”

“Yes, Father.”

“Do you love him?”

“With all my heart, Father.”

“Does he respect your wishes, your body, your spirit?”

“Yes, Father.”

“Do you respect his?”

“I hope so, Father.”

“Do you keep each other safe?”

“Yes, Father.”

And Father Herjavec would invariably conclude: “Then no matter what you two are doing, I don’t think there is any sin being committed in your marriage, my child.”

He would, of course. Lorena hadn’t chosen a progressive, open-minded church to attend by accident. But still: sometimes it was good to hear those words from someone other than themselves.

Garcia made an inquisitive noise and nudged her cheek with his snout. Lorena closed her eyes, nuzzled back, and repeated to herself: _there is no sin here_.

And if there _was_ – well, that was too bad then, wasn’t it? Because they were going to go through with it either way.

“I love you,” she whispered, burying her hands in his thick fur. “I _want_ you.”

Garcia whined, and though he couldn’t form the words, Lorena could hear him say, _I love you too._

The nuzzling turned into a lick, and one lick turned into many. After her cheek he made his way down her body, from the sensitive side of her throat, to her sternum, to the valley of her breasts. His wolf’s tongue was really no different than his human tongue. Years ago, when they first started doing this, she used to close her eyes and pretend it _was_ human. That any hint of fur was just his black, human hair falling into his eyes, or an ordinary human beard he’d grown while he was away on another job. Now, when he focused his attention on her breasts, she still turned her face away – the truth too much to face directly, like the sun – but made no more attempts at deluding or excusing herself.

Her wolf husband laved at her nipples as she stared at the ceiling, breath short and trembling. She fisted her hands in the fur of his neck, as much to keep herself from ruining the moment as to encourage him. Every time, she’d think she couldn’t get any more guiltily aroused than during the wait, and every time, she’d be wrong. Her nipples were pebbled and she was so, so wet.

Under normal circumstances, having her breasts played with barely did anything for her. These were not normal circumstances. Garcia’s actions were nothing like the wild, random licking of an excited dog; they were slow, deliberate, varied, calculated to stimulate. Human in every way but the one. He circled one nipple with his tongue and then moved to the other breast to lick everything _but_ the nipple. His head tilted with his efforts. He tickled her, rubbing the fur of his snout along her breasts just to get a reaction out of her. He licked and licked and even managed a weak suckle, though he stayed far, far away from nibbling or even scraping his teeth along her skin. Too close to the curse for comfort, no matter how careful they were.

And then he lowered his great furred head and gently headbutted her stomach. And Lorena knew what to do, but it was a challenge every time. She wanted it – so, so badly. But could she make herself lie back and spread her legs again? Or would she curl in on herself, shrink around her shame, cover her spit-slick breasts, and shoo him away and pray to be forgiven for her depravity? She’d done it before. Not the first time, or the second, or even the fifth. But her desire had given way under the weight of her own guilt and mortification in the past, and she was never sure it wouldn’t again in the future.

This time, she let go of Garcia’s neck and lowered herself stiffly to the mattress. She rested her arms around her head and took deep, fortifying breaths. When she lowered her eyes to look at him, she caught sight of the hills and valleys of her own body too, glistening with werewolf saliva. Those eyes – Garcia’s eyes in that strange and gorgeous wolf’s face – met hers. His gaze never leaving hers, he lowered his head and nudged her knee.

Like a powerful magnet held them together at the joint, Lorena slowly and laboriously parted her legs.

 _“Please,”_ she whispered.

She would never forget how wary and tentative he’d looked when she first broached this subject to him. So unsure so suddenly, of her intentions, of their relationship. It had simultaneously bolstered her to see how much weight he put in her feelings, and deepened her insecurity to have it confirmed that what she wanted wasn’t remotely normal.

Later, he had admitted to wondering if it was some kind of test, and being startled out of considering his own feelings or opinions for weeks because he was so busy trying to figure out what she hoped to achieve. He had assumed that she’d take him responding positively to mean that he didn’t respect her or something; that he thought she was looser and more immoral than the lowest whore. That she was so desperate to – to be loved, or fucked, or punished, or worse – she’d let herself be used and defiled by an animal. Or that not rejecting the notion out of hand now meant he might consider it the normal, expected thing later, and it didn’t even occur to him that she might consider it demeaning and unnatural.

It had taken every ounce of her courage and so very much time to be able to say, _“If I asked you to fuck me on a full moon, as a wolf, would you do it?”_ , and then they’d done nothing but dance around the idea, hurting themselves and each other with silence and assumptions, for ages.

Not anymore. When it finally got down to straight talk and honest answers, his were _“yes, let’s try it”_ and _“I’d be lying if I said the thought had_ never _occurred to me before”_. After they first tried it, he was as eager to do it again as she was. And when Lorena gave the word _go_ now, Garcia sprang to action. She said _‘please’_ , and he shouldered his way between her legs, pushing her thighs open wider to make room for himself, and he lowered his head. He knew not to give her _too_ much time to reconsider when her mouth said _‘yes’_ but her body language said _‘wait’_ , knew _not_ to take it slow. He had only two settings himself – _‘absolutely’_ and _‘absolutely not’_ – and would never understand how she would voluntarily drag herself kicking and screaming into things. How sometimes it was the only way to get what she wanted. Kissing girls, studying abroad, marrying a werewolf, actively seeking out new friendships in the supernatural community... _this_. But Garcia knew to trust Lorena’s words, and he knew how she wanted to be helped. So that’s what he did.

With his massive, furred body between her thighs, he took a deep breath of her arousal. The angle was wrong for her to see, but she thought her labia must be even wetter than her breasts – and smell all the better for it. ( _No Little Red Riding Hood jokes, no Little Red Riding Hood jokes, no Little Red Riding Hood jokes._ ) His snuffling breath tickled her exposed skin as he took in her scent, and she was already starting to squirm when he – oh god, his nose ground straight into her clitoris. Her hips bucked up from the bed in surprise.

His tongue followed. Looking away, Lorena pressed a hand over her mouth. If what he did to her breasts was a tongue bath, this was a feast. His deft tongue lapped up every drop of flavor from her skin. As meticulously as the blunt instrument of his maw allowed, he cleaned every dip and fold, from the crease of her left thigh to the crease of her right. When he was done, he moved his attention to her clit for a while to get the slick flowing again in earnest. He made a whole new mess of her, rubbing his nose everywhere and spreading her fluid around, and then he cleaned her up again.

After three rounds of that sweet torture, Garcia finally dipped his tongue inside her. Whimpering and squirming, Lorena couldn’t keep herself from looking anymore. Garcia’s piercing eyes met hers, over the curves of her body, over his grey snout. He licked into her, and no, no she couldn’t look after all, she averted her eyes again. God, did she _feel_ it, though. Groping blindly, she reached one hand down to stroke his soft, warm ears and fist in his fur, urging him on. He worked her open and teased her clit, made a gasping, writhing wreck of her with nothing but his nose and his tongue.

It was intolerable, the sight of the beast between her legs, eating her out, and yet she couldn’t stop sneaking peeks. Lorena looked. Lorena looked away. She looked, looked away again. Garcia made an indeterminate sound and jerked his head up. She chose to take it as an order – and to obey it, raising herself up on both elbows for a better view.

It always felt like a small miracle, how together they coaxed the courage out of her on these nights. And he – Garcia felt like a small miracle in everything he was and did. His boundless, inexhaustible love for her. His utter adoration of their daughter. The careful, exuberant, quietly delighted way he took care of all three of them. The beauty of him in every form he took. His capacity for gentleness and pleasure no matter the species. His very _existence_ ; a wolf with the mind of a man, the bloodlust and insanity bled out of his kind by generations of the curse’s victims banding together to support and love one another, becoming brothers and sisters and mentors, becoming parents and having blessedly unburdened children instead of biting more people.

Garcia reared up and nipped at the air around Lorena’s left wrist. Once more following his lead, she brought a hand to her clit. As he went back to lapping at and thrusting into her with his tongue, his paws thrown over her thighs, she rubbed furiously. No matter how often they did this, it never failed to get to her. He’d bring her most of the way there and then draw back to watch as she finished the job, and she’d watch him watching her, drink in his reverent awe and the satisfaction of a job well done as she came. And oh how she came, jaw slack and womanhood clenching and every inch of her shaking with the guilty pleasure of it. But she kept her eyes open the entire time, her gaze never leaving his.

They were probably _both_ going to hell for this. But they’d be going together, and the thrill of their journey there was indescribable.

Spent, she collapsed back onto the bed. She caught her breath, and he licked his chops, looking every inch the canine that got the pussycat.

Now it was just a matter of time. He hadn’t had his own fill yet. And she wanted more, her arousal never burned through so easily and her first orgasm only ever the appetizer for her second and third, and he knew it. But this last step was the hardest. The most extreme and insane and impossible to explain. He knew that too. And he felt the same; just because he was the giving party versus her receiving didn’t make it any less arresting for him.

It took a bit – a trembling, precarious, _‘do I take the plunge off this bridge and trust the bungee cord to save me?’_ eternity – but finally, she abruptly launched herself off the bed and got onto her hands and knees on the yoga mat she’d laid out on the floor beside it, padded (okay, more like waterproofed) with towels.

“Alright, your turn,” she rasped, fighting the urge to squeeze her thighs together. Or to cover herself up and run away outright, so even he couldn’t see her present herself for the taking like this. “Come on, honey. Come on.”

Instead of getting on with it, through, he faced her and started licking her cheek. She startled. But his intentions soon became clear to her, and she relaxed a little. Taking a deep, bracing breath, she cupped his furry neck and pressed her forehead to his.

“I know. I love you too,” she assured him. “Now _please_.”

He walked around her and sweetly licked her spine, and then he climbed on top of her.

He was even bigger and heavier as a wolf than as a man, and he wasn’t a small man to start with. It was easy to miss the truth of his size when she was standing upright and he walked on four legs, but impossible to ignore when he mounted her. His furry bulk overwhelmed and dwarfed her own body. He forced her into a more submissive position just by being there. His barrel chest pushed her shoulders down, her back arching along the curve of his belly, her rump pushing up into his hips. She spread her arms and legs beneath him like a cat on ice to keep her balance, and hung her head, achingly aware of how it exposed her neck as her shoulder length curls fell away and around her face. Garcia had never indicated any particular association with the gesture, but Lorena had associations to spare.

She felt herself throb in time with the hammering of her heart in her chest. Almost, almost. Garcia’s hips jerked forward into hers, and Lorena felt his hot, slick member... glance off and slide between her folds. Missing the mark once, twice, three times. He growled, and she could have screamed from the nervous frustration.

Aiming was hard sometimes. Apparently, tonight was one of those times she’d have to guide him inside manually.

She’d never seen _it_ directly. She’d glimpsed it from the corner of her eye at times, but anything more than a vague blur and she looked away immediately. No matter how often they’d done this by now, she’d never been able to take that extra step and look. He had opposable canine thumbs and his human eyes and plenty of distinctly man-like mannerisms, but he was still very much an animal. Who was to say what his penis looked like? Not Lorena, that was for sure.

She knew the feel of him, though. In her hand, and in her body.

She knew the knot. That was enough.

Blindly she reached back, skimming along his silky side, the outside of his thigh, around to the inside, between his paws. There it was. She wrapped her hand around the warm shaft. Guided the tip to her entrance. Felt it slip through her fingers as he snapped his hips again, and –

_“Ah!”_

One thrust was all it took for him to split her open. One stroke filled her to the brim, knocking the breath out of her – along with far too much noise. She cringed, instinctively clenching around his intrusion, and bit back a second cry before they woke the puppy. Baby. Iris, who was _four_. Whatever. Lorena was distracting herself, like a coward, from the fact that her wolf-shaped husband was now officially, indisputably, no possible _‘it doesn’t count as sex unless’_ es about it anymore, _fucking_ her. Like she’d been longing for with a mixture of Catholic dread and sheer, undiluted lust all night long.

He pumped his mystery werewolf member into her with short, sharp thrusts, the fur of his belly against her back, his paws boxing her in, his panting breaths ruffling her hair. She used to tell herself he was just wearing a fur coat, and a cold was making him breath funny, and a whole host of other such nonsense, but screw that. Sometimes Garcia was a wolf, and sometimes Lorena wanted him to fuck her as that wolf, ‘natural order of things’ be damned. She shut her eyes tight and bit her lip to reduce her overwhelmed cries to strangled breaths, and shoved her hips back to meet his thrusts.

Her hands were fisted in the towels and for a long time, that’s where they stayed. Pleasure coiled tighter and tighter in her belly. She couldn’t orgasm without clitoral stimulation, but she held off touching herself for as long as she could, wanting to revel in the need and the hot, slick tension and in _knowing damn well what they were doing_. It wasn’t until Garcia growled and pawed at her arm – their long-standing sign for _‘I’m close’_ – that she reached between her legs and pushed herself over the edge with a thin cry.

Her head spun and her breath stuttered. Her remaining arm buckled, and she rested her weight on her elbow and her face against her forearm. Garcia’s furry hips sped up, his thrusts growing harder, faster, deeper, until Lorena felt a quick, burning flash as something significantly bigger than the rest of him pushed through her entrance. There it found its place, stretching and filling the more forgiving interior of her passage to capacity. One, two, three more shallow thrusts, and Garcia came with a shudder and a low howl, his hips pressed flush to her thighs.

Lorena never got used to this. Never felt any less of this illicit, glorious thrill. His penis twitching inside her, spurting. The warmth that spread through her womb as she was filled with wave after wave of seed. _Wolf seed_ , tonight, and she _knew_ (thank god) that wasn’t how it worked, but Iris had been born on a full moon like most werewolf babies, that’s how strong the moon’s pull was, so Lorena’s firstborn had been a cub for the first night of her life and now every time they did this she imagined their next child to be a result of the full moon twice over and to come to her even more animalistically, to be a _litter_ of wolf cubs, just like the father that planted them in her.

And his _knot_. God, his knot. Even as he started his inhumanly long ejaculation, that knot continued to swell, growing until it truly locked him inside of her body. Sealed her off so not a drop of that hot seed that just kept on coming, could spill out. She drew her hips back to feel the pull, the inevitability of how they were tied together. Her passage fluttered and rippled around him, squeezing more tightly around the unbearable intrusion, because sex was nothing if not a ballet of paradoxes, telling her _too much_ , and _too big_ , or maybe _just right, just enough_ , maybe _finally, he’s come back home, finally!_ Lorena’s thighs quivered so hard her hips couldn’t hold her anymore. She tapped Garcia’s flank to tell him to follow her down, and she let her knees slide apart until all her weight – and his, settling gently atop and around her – rested on her splayed and folded legs.

And then, feverishly, she went for her clit again.

“God, god, god,” she babbled. “Oh god, oh fuck, Garcia, fuck.”

She pressed her mouth to the back of her arm to muffle the sound she was about to make, and was coming again within seconds. But unlike with the last two orgasms, she didn’t stop this time after the first explosion of pleasure and satisfaction. Almost as if his physiology rubbed off on hers for a while, she worked herself through a long, slow climax. One, maybe two flicks of her clit every time the fire died down too far, and the pleasure would flare back to life and make her whole body sing.

It wasn’t even _entirely_ lustful gluttony; experience had taught her that if she stopped and her body tried to come down from the high of sex with him still inside her, things could get uncomfortable.

Garcia licked her shoulders and the base of her neck, making soothing, wheezy noises. Dropping her face to the towels and turning her head as far as she could, she crooked the arm not between her legs and raised it. He pressed his snout into her hand, eyes closing blissfully, and she stroked his silky pelt.

“I love you,” she whispered hoarsely. “God, I love you so much, Garcia. I love your skin, I love your fur. I want you to knot me every month for the rest of our lives.”

She’d never said anything like that before. The last time they’d actually _talked_ about what they were doing was the second time they’d ever done it. She’d never even let herself think like this – let herself admit to wanting it more often than just the rare occasions when their cycles aligned.

Garcia made a predictably indecipherable noise.

Lorena could feel herself start to panic, sliding back into the swamp of guilt and shame that had so often stopped her from pursuing her desires in the past. But unlike the past, this time she cast about for something to keep herself from sinking and found the perfect distraction.

Her pointer finger was starting to cramp up, so she switched to her middle finger and rubbed her clit with renewed vigor. She clenched around him, and he jerked his hips into hers, shuddering and whining thinly. He nuzzled her hair away from her face to lick her cheek. Then he burrowed his snout into the crook of her neck, and that’s how they settled. Bound to each other by their mutual pleasure, drifting on the cusp of orgasm and occasionally, lazily dipping down into it, for a good quarter of an hour.

When Garcia’s knot finally shrunk down to a size that would let them part again, Lorena was exhausted. All her limbs felt like jelly. If she came one more time, she was sure she’d pass out. But there was one last thing she wanted out of nights like this. A final nail she liked to drive into her coffin.

Garcia wriggled and shuffled his paws back under himself, and carefully tugged his hips away from hers. There was barely any discomfort, so Lorena told him _“okay”_ and he pulled all the way out of her. Her heart fluttered when she felt the _pop_ of the last swell of his knot passing. But she was ready and waiting, clamping her hand over her gaping pussy as soon as he vacated her.

He stumbled off, weak and wobbly in his paws too. With the last strength in her legs, she maneuvered herself onto her back. Even that was enough to force trails of semen out of her, around and between her fingers. She removed her hand and bent over to look. Coincidentally, that movement required clenching her abdominal muscles, so she was rewarded with the sight of a thick, generous gush of semen leaving her body all at once. Her womanhood winked and spasmed, forcing out more and more of the milky white fluid. Like there had seemed to be no end to him filling her with his seed earlier, there seemed to be no end to her body expelling the excess now.

Lorena couldn’t even begin to explain why, but there was something endlessly enthralling and gratifying about the sight. She looked up and found Garcia watching his spend leaking from her well-fucked hole with at least as much smug fascination. When the trickle finally slowed to a stop, he looked her dead in the eye, lowered his head, and stepped forward to help clean her up.

First, with his tongue.

Then, by trotting off to fetch a wet washcloth. Because sure, the first way was hot, but what were they, _animals?_

Once Lorena’s legs could hold her again, Garcia helped her to the bathroom (soiled towels under her arm) to pee and brush her teeth and dress for the night, and then back and into bed. He crawled under the covers with her, she turned off the light, and together they stretched out and relaxed.

“Thank you,” she said, scratching his ears. “I know... I know my hang-ups don’t make this easy for you either, but thank you for not calling the party off.”

He hummed contentedly and gave her hand a tiny lick.

Glad to be able to pretend he couldn’t see her in the dark any more than she could see him, she grinned and mumbled: “I hope it was as good for you as it was for me.”

He rumbled a definite affirmative. _“Best orgasms of my life,”_ he’d admitted long ago. _“They just go on forever. It’s like somewhere halfway through, my brain starts melting and leaking out of my ears, it's that good.”_ Which was so much like what being knotted by him felt like to her, one would think she’d have said it back right away, but even now she found herself blushing furiously at the thought.

Then she laughed. God, there she went again, getting embarrassed. She’d come so far, but would she ever _really_ conquer that urge?

“What do you think,” Lorena said, more cheerfully. “Did we make our new baby tonight? That knot’s gotta be good for something, right?”

Huffing with canine laughter, Garcia pulled the sheets down and rearranged himself to lie with his head on her stomach. _Maybe,_ she imagined him saying with that playful grin of his. _We certainly tried hard enough._

Come sunrise, he would get up and carry Iris into the basement. When he brought her back upstairs, she would be a little girl again and he a man. He would slide back into bed and take Lorena into his arms with a kiss to her temple, and they’d drift off again and sleep in late. She would wake up deliciously sore and make them all their favorite breakfasts, and life would go on as if nothing had happened, rolling day by day and night by night toward the next full moon.

But for now, sleep tugged at Lorena’s eyelids, made her limbs heavy, and evened out her breathing. And she didn’t feel bad about what they’d done again once that night. Baby steps.

Epilogue

Five moons, three more knots, and one narrowly averted daughter-cub and Christmas tree disaster later, Garcia lifted his head from Lorena’s rounded stomach in the middle of the night. Perhaps it was the abruptness of the movement, perhaps some awareness of the same thing that made his fur stand on end, but she jolted awake at the same time. Disoriented, Lorena cast her muddled senses around for what was happening. She was about to open her mouth to ask when they both heard it: low, low voices outside their narrowly cracked bedroom door.

_“That’s not a girl, that’s a puppy. The kid’s not here.”_

_“Bravo One, check the bathroom and the attic. Bravo Two, with me. Bravo Three, shoot the dog before it wakes up and barks.”_

Lorena’s eyes shot wide open. Garcia was out of bed and through the door in a flash. He let out a terrifying roar the likes of which she’d never heard before, and then there was chaos. A whirlwind of thumps and bangs and cracks, Garcia’s deafening growling and snarling, strangers screaming and gurgling and yelling, and _gunshots_.

With a shout, Lorena rolled out of bed, pulled the mattress over herself for protection in a single, thoughtless movement, and curled around her belly with her hands over her ears.

 _Iris!_ she screamed internally. _Oh god, Garcia, Iris!_

She had to get to her baby, she had to protect Iris, but with bullets flying and bones snapping out there –

With one last, squelching crunch, the noise stopped. Lorena held her breath. She heard heavy paws beat across the landing and Iris’s bedroom door opening, followed immediately by her frantic little whines. Lorena got to her feet, threw off the mattress, and ran for her daughter.

The hallway was strewn with broken, twisted bodies in armored clothing and night-vision goggles. Lorena saw wrists bent at unnatural angles and torn-out throats, and all she could think was _oh, thank god, thank god for the moon_. She stumbled through the carnage in the faint glow of the hallway night light, barely noticing the fresh blood she stepped in and the gun she kicked aside in her hurry.

She barreled into Iris’s room and Garcia whirled on her, teeth bared and hackles raised, before realizing it was her. Iris shot out from behind him in a tiny grey blur. Lorena fell to her knees, opened her arms, and wrapped them tightly around her whining, barking, terrified daughter.

“Are you okay? Are you hurt?” she asked them. “What’s happening? Who were those people?!”

Garcia shook his head – they were fine – but of course he couldn’t answer her other questions yet. Instead, he hurried back into the master bedroom and returned moments later, dragging along their bug-out bags. The ones with the money in five currencies, the fake passports, the untraceable phones, the oversized first-aid kits – and, in hers, the notebook detailing everything he thought she needed to know if they were ever separated, or he was killed. He dropped them at her feet and looked her in the eye.

The message was clear. Explanations would have to wait.

There might be more where their attackers came from. They had to run. Now.


End file.
